Family's always embarrassing, isn't it?
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: The Nordic boys are invited for a sedate afternoon tea with the Englands. Sweden is looking forward to cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off; Denmark not so happy about a beer-free afternoon. But England has several skeletons in the closet and they are about to emerge...
1. Going to seize the western shore

_**The Embarrassing Relatives...**_

_This is my first go at a fanfic in humon's captivating "Scandinavia and the World" idiom. For those of you who have come here from the other fandoms I write for, especially the Discworld, if you haven't come across humon before, let me recommend her ongoing cartoon strip. Basically each country has at least one "avatar" who represents the stereotype of that nation in the eyes of the rest of the world. They generally come in twos: a Brother and a Sister. Thus Brother Sweden is an uptight anal retentive who shops at IKEA – in fact, he personifies IKEA – and generally needs to unbutton his shirt and live a bit. Sister Sweden is – well, liberated. The fun lies in the interactions of the various national sprites as they play out the social and historical friendships and niggling irritations between them. As it says on the box, this is largely Scandinavia's view of the rest of the world and the Nordic sprites are the central characters. After all, humon herself is Danish and now ranks alongside Sandy Toksvig as a Great Dane. _

"And did those feet..." hummed Denmark, as he arrived outside England's house. Sweden flicked a slap at his head, ineffectually.

"Behave!" he said. "We're _guests_!"

"And besides, they buy a lot of your furniture." Denmark said, pointedly. "Can't annoy the customers!"

Sweden flicked another rather limp slap at Denmark, who dodged. See the Spirit of Denmark. In form he is a boisterous youth in late teenage, with sandy-yellow hair. His t-shirt is red with a large white cross. It is stained with near-misses where the beer bottle has not quite engaged with his mouth. Indeed, he carries a bottle of Carlsberg Elefante with him. It is part of the national image he has to project, after all.

"...walk upon England's mountains green." the third member of the party hummed. He stroked his pet fish, perplexed. "Well, he can't have done, can he? I mean, England doesn't actually _have_ any mountains!"

Norway's arm stretched out, taking in the swell of the distant Pennines.

"Nice _hills_, I'll grant you. But never mountains." Norway is the tallest of the three: an easy-going giant with curly blonde hair and the suspicion of a beard. He wears the intricate interlocking Nordic cross, blue inside white on a red background. The fish burbled up at him, seemingly content and untroubled by being out of water.

Sweden was inclined to agree with Norway on the subject of Britain's mountains. By Scandinavian standards, they were hardly spectacular. Even Finland had bigger hills.

"Just don't say it out loud." he warned Norway. "Brother England is quite unaccountably _proud_ of his hills. Which is how that wretched song got written in the first place."

"I've often wondered how that could have happened." Denmark mused, thoughtfully. "After all, Israel's a long way away, this was in the really old days, before Brother Italy made them an offer they couldn't refuse, so how can this guy from Israel end up on a hiking trip in England?"

Sweden glared at him.

"I mean, it's a bit out of area for him..."

Under Sweden's withering gaze, Denmark faltered into silence.

Regard Sweden. He has the appearance of a librarian in a very strict library that prides itself on shelving _exactly_ according to the Dewey Decimal system. His glasses gleam, impeccably clean. Not a hair on his well-coiffeured blonde head is out of place. In appearance no older than about twenty-seven, he has taken on the self-appointed role as Father of the group. Or at least Big Brother. His shirt is royal blue and his tie golden-yellow.

"Look." he said, patiently. "We've been invited to afternoon tea at the Englands. You know how formal they are. We do not want to upset them. Best behaviour is _expected_. Especially_ you_, Denmark. Do I make myself clear?"

Norway and Denmark agreed, suspiciously quickly and without argument. The three walked on towards England's home. The Englands, at least for the moment, were living in Yorkshire, an arrangement nicely situated for the Scandinavians to visit.

Denmark paused, and looked wistfully back towards the sea.

"Remember the old days, Norway? We didn't wait for an invitation then, we just parked the longboat and pillaged a monastery."

Norway grinned . "Scandinavian boys on a run ashore."

"That." Sweden said, firmly, "was then. This is now. We _behave_ ourselves. Am I understood?"

Sweden looked more than ever like a librarian expressing offence against somebody breathing too loudly. Denmark and Norway sighed loudly and walked on in silence towards England's house, visible in the distance. It looked just like a classic semi-detached suburban house. But as all the Spirits knew, appearances were deceptive and could be changed at a whim. They might, for example, have made landfall in England's domain at the White Cliffs of Dover, and visited a stately home or a castle in Kent that projected a different sort of Englishness. Sweden knew this well enough: his favourite home was in the southlands of Scania where summers were warm and winters clement. But there was nothing to stop him trying out Jonskippansken (except perhaps the sounds, smell and essential black sooty mess of iron mining) or even a log cabin further North, if he chose. Sister Finland, he knew, favoured a lakeside retreat at Tuonela where she could feed the black swans and indulge her moods1**(1)**. And Denmark didn't care where the hell he was so long as there was a bar.

A bar. Sweden shuddered. It was going to be a long day.

**1(1) Finland's** national composer Sibelius set episodes of the **_Kalevela _**epic poem to music. The **_Swan of Tuonela _**is a sombre piece about the spirit of death – a black swan – sailing the dark lake of death, doom and despondency in the far North of the country.


	2. Down from the land of the ice and snow

_**The Embarrassing Relatives... 2**_

_This is my first go at a fanfic in humon's captivating "Scandinavia and the World" idiom. Humon's art and ideas get under your skin. She's really good at engaging the imagination – I've been living and breathing her stuff for two solid days now. It'll settle down after a while, I know, but while my head is buzzing with SatW I've got to write about it. Haven't felt quite this way since I discovered Terry Pratchett..._

"I'm so glad you could all visit!" Sister England declared, as she poured tea for the Nordics. Denmark looked dubiously at his cup. The concept of a drink that contained no alcohol whatsoever was absolutely foreign to him. He felt like a traitor to his bottle of beer, which sat on top of the coffee table, as if silently reproaching him for infidelity. Sweden shot him a meaningful glare. Denmark steeled himself, lifted the cup to his lips, and sipped, repressing a shudder.

The drawing room at the Englands was small but tastefully furnished, with antique furniture going back several hundred years, and the walls painted and modelled in the Regency fashion. The five of them, two hosts and three visitors, were sitting around the coffee table, upon which sat the huge silver teatray and the ornate tea service. The Englands had brought out their very best china, delicate and fine with gold tracery. A cake-stand and a platter of afternoon tea sandwiches, impeccably presented on doiley'd salvers, completed the display. It was a shame Denmark's beer bottle and Norway's pet fish had been put down on the same tabletop, which rather detracted from the look of the thing.

I'm jolly glad!" Sister England repeated. "Finland couldn't make it?"

"He felt a need to go to the border and stare menacingly at Russia for a while." Sweden explained. "He gets these moods from time to time. And Sister Finland had to look after her swan lake."

"Oh, I never knew she was into ballet!" Sister England exclaimed, clapping her hands joyfully. "How _cultured_!"

"Swan Lake? Oh yes...Tuonela." Sweden said, weakly. It is said that a grown swan can break a man's arm with one buffet of its wings. The swan of Tuonela has heard about this. Being a Finnish swan, it scorns arm-breaking as being strictly for wimps. Similarly, Sister Finland doesn't just stand at the lakeside throwing old stale bread. Oh no. This is feeding the birds for _Finns. _

Brother England adjusted the fit of his monacle.

"Shame Iceland isn't here." he said. "But then, we haven't quite seen eye-to-eye since that unfortunate business over the cod a few years ago."1**(1)**

"No." his sister agreed. "Jolly uncomfortable."

Sister England. She is comfortably dressed and of an age to be extremely comfortable in her own skin. While her teeth are slightly irregular, her skin is still pale complexioned and her elegant clothes, in a red and white motif, are set off by the double string of pearls around her neck. She is partly Emma Thompson, partly Margaret Thatcher. 2**(2)**

Brother England, by contrast, is a Bertie Woosterish figure. Were he on this phase of the planet Earth with us, and not just an avatar of the English people as seen from outside, living in their own world that overlaps ours just enough for the two to resonate in harmony, then he might well combine Stephen Fry with David Mitchell. People mistake his slightly diffident prone-to-babbling persona for inneffectuality. They would be wrong.

"Sandwiches OK, old man?" he asked Norway, who had lifted the top slice of bread off a cucumber sandwich and was examining it forensically.

"Well," Norway said, "You English have made a good start here. The bread, then the layer of cucumber. Good start. Good start. But for good _Smørrebrød_, you need _marinerede sild_, pickled herrings thinly-sliced cheese in many varieties; tomato and boiled eggs; _leverpostej_, which is pork liver-paste; thinly sliced meats, _**gravadlax**_, or smoked fish such as salmon; mackerel in tomato sauce; pickled cucumber; boiled egg, and rings of red onion. Mayonnaise, of course, and..."

"The sandwiches are _exquisite_!" Sweden said, hurriedly. He hissed through the corner of his mouth: "Norway, this is how the English do it!"

"And r_ø_dgr_ø_t med fl_ø_ve, of course." Denmark said, innocently.**(3)** 3

"sorry... rothgrurd.. rethgrod moyeth..." Sister England floundered. She reddened slightly under Denmark's innocent scrutiny.

"Denmark, behave!" said Sweden, without looking round.

And then the noise started. It was an argument. Far away, indistinct as words, but two people having an argument nonetheless. Brother and Sister England looked at each other. Sweden, Norway and Denmark caught the worried look.

"Is this a bad time?" Sweden asked.

"No, no." Brother England assured him. "It's... family."

"Family?" asked Norway, who, despairing of the s_mørrebrød, _ had begun on the cake. He said it indistinctly, through a mouthful of crumbs.

"Do you think we should tell them?" sister England asked, as the shouting got closer and nearer.

Her brother arrived at a decision.

"We should. " he said, steeling himself visibly as if to discharge an unpleasant duty. "At the very least, Denmark has a right to know."

"A right to know what?" asked Denmark, curiously. He reached for his habitual beer bottle. He frowned. As he was in England, it had turned from Carlsberg into Carling Black Label. He shrugged. Ah well.

Sister England looked at him with compassionate eyes.

"It's to do with the nature of our family. And the fact a greater Britain has been around now for nearly five thousand years. Please listen to my brother."

And brother England related a story that held the attention of all three Nordics...

* * *

_That's it for now... England's family secret will be revealed tomorrow or at such time as I can get back to the PC again. What is the secret? Who's making the noise? What has it got to do with Denmark and why will it be a stupendously bad idea for him to find out? It is plotted. It will be written. Watch this space._

* * *

**1 **International relations between Britain and Iceland soured in the 1970's over the issue of access to the fishing grounds around Iceland. Iceland excluded all fishing boats apart from their own, Britain refused to accept this , the navies of both countries got involved, things got heated... an Icelandic patrol boat, btw, once damn nearly sank a Royal Navy frigate three times its size, which says to the world "Do not piss off people of Viking descent. However sparkly they are." Relations have improved since.

**2 **But nicer. Much, much, nicer.

**3 **This is a common Danish bloodsport at the expense of foreigners. Getting them to pronounce this phrase brings endless moments of quiet joy.


	3. Valhalla, I am coming

_**The Embarrassing Relatives... 3**_

_This is my first go at a fanfic in humon's captivating "Scandinavia and the World" idiom. _ _Still captivated by Humon. I've even had time to attempt a bit of fan-art in her idiom – it's not very good and I blushed to put it up on deviant-art alongside people who are REALLY good at it , but some of the ideas I was having bubbled up and had to be expressed. If it interests you, look up deviant: AgProv (one of my other online names) where I've stashed a handful of Discworld and SatW-related pieces._

"What defines a country?" Brother England asked, rhetorically. "We know until the end of the Ice Age there was no such thing as the British Isles. It was only the melting of the ice-cap which raised sea-levels and created the English Channel."

Denmark raised a hand.

"Sister France calls it _La Manche." _he said, with every indication of earnest helpfulness.

"Noted." said Brother England, somewhat testily. _ "_That was seven thousand years ago. That set the scene, if you like. It built the stage. Just as the retreating ice shaped your Scandinavia later on. But the first really tangible evidence of actual_ people_ in Britain is the best part of three thousand years later, when they built Stonehenge..."

"Skip a bit, brother." his sister requested him. The noise of arguing and fighting grew louder and nearer.

"And when _people_ inhabit a country, they create an avatar, a country sprite." concluded Brother England. "Brother Greece, who's a bit of a philosopher chappie, gets terribly mystical about it, and claims you and I and all the others are the product of millions of people out there having a shared dream. Consensus reality, he calls it, and he claims we're a collection of Platonic ideals."

"Plato. Wasn't he..."

"A bit of an Åland, yes." agreed Norway. Sweden glared at him.

"Well, the Greeks invented it." Denmark said, philosophically.

"I think we'd better intervene, dear. Auntie might need a hand." Sister England said, practically. "Coming, chaps?"

The Englands led their guests through a series of corridors. Sweden reflected that the house looked an awful lot bigger on the inside than it seemed from the outside. He shrugged: a continuous history since Stonehenge needed a lot of storage space.

Brother England spoke again as they hurried.

"And the thing with dreams is that they flow and change over time... ah, here we are."

The door was marked _Welcome To The Valhalla Retirement Home. _The five of them rushed through it. They found themselves in a wide carpeted lounge, with comfortable chairs pushed back against the walls, occupied by a scattering of older people who were cheering on what looked like a three-cornered fight in the middle of the lounge.

"Oh, dear." said Sister England. "Grandfather's been on the mead again. It mixes with his medication and does funny things."

The three combatants were pretty much identically dressed, in full chain-mail hauberks , cross-gartered leggings, and protective helmets. Although one helmet had a long nasal protector hanging down in front and its wearer toted a kite-shaped shield. Another actually had horns on his helmet, and bore a round shield with a raven design.

"_I stitched you up at Maldon and I'll have you again, any time or place!" _bellowed the horned-helmeted one.

"_Oh yeah? Just step over here, Danelaw, and I'll fetch you such a clout..."_

"_You and whose army, Wessex? You can't even bake cakes without making a bollocks of it!"_

"_Say the word. Just say the bloody word. I'll muster a fyrd and a company of fully trained housecarls, quick as blinking."_

"_And the two of you had better shut up now as I had **both** of you! Remember Hastings?"_

"_Piss off, Norman, you bastard, this isn't your argument!"_

"_Ooh, that makes me so MAD! It's Norman the CONQUEROR, you bastard!"**(1)**_

Brother England shook his head, sadly.

"Somebody's let them get dressed up again. Auntie needs a hand, by the look of it."

The only thing preventing outright war was a large, imposing, woman in her apparent late thirties who had somehow got in between the three arguing men. She was waving her trident threateningly. It was clear she was losing patience.

"This will DO, gentlemen!" she bellowed. "I will NOT have this unseemly behaviour on MY premises!"

Denmark nudged Norway.

"I thought only Germany did the Valkyrie thing these days? You know. Seriously big women. In helmets. With a hubcap on each boob. Sing mezzo-soprano."

Norway nodded, appreciatively. Lady Germany commanded respect. But even she might defer to this one. Brother Finland would be in love instantly. But a British Valkyrie...

She was a comfortably large lady, dressed in flowing white robes, with a Greek-style helmet pushed back on her brow, and a gleaming bronze breastplate. She carried a large and wicked-looking trident, and at her back was slung a shield bearing the crossed crosses of Great Britain.

"Do you need a hand, Auntie?" Sister England asked, bustling forward.

"Thank you, dear. You take Uncle Norman back to his room and disarm him. See his axe and chain-mail are returned to the armoury. I'll deal with Uncle Wessex. That only leaves Uncle Danelaw..."

But Danelaw had lowered his axe. He was looking at Denmark with growing recognition in his eyes.

"_For helved da! " _he exclaimed.

"_Helvede!_" said Denmark. "I thought you were dead!"

Both looked at Brother England, who nodded.

"I'm afraid so, old boy. You're related."

The fully-armed Viking warrior roared with pleasure and leapt for Denmark, grabbing him where his breasts would have been, had he been a woman.

"Well, that proves you're related." Sweden said, stepping out of groping range. "But how does this happen?"

"I honestly thought..." Denmark said, "I thought it was like Iceland and Vinland, or Original Greenland, you know? Nothing left except a tombstone and some archaeology."

"Not so, old lad." said Brother England. "The settlers in North America and Greenland died completely. Here, it's true the Viking colony of the Danelaw diminished in importance when Alfred the Great unified England and won it by force from Denmark. But it never died. Its people intermarried and intermingled and their language became a part of English. A lot of dialect English in the North still uses Danish and Norwegian loan-words. In a very real sense, the Danelaw is still with us."

"You never visited, you thoughtless selfish little bastard!" Danelaw said, accusingly. "Too busy partying, were you?"

"Er...yes." said Denmark, taking refuge in truth.

"Well, don't hog that beer, then!"

The older -looking Dane grabbed the bottle and took a deep swig, then belched.

Sweden shook his head.

"So... the world moves on. But old sprites carry on existing so long as they have something to bind them to the world?" he said.

England nodded.

"The Danelaw existed for several hundred years. It was conquered by the Kingdom of Wessex and absorbed into England. England out-grew the need for a patron spirit called Danelaw. But he's still around. Think of that frightful mess with Germany. You've still got Prussia walking around even though his world ended in 1918, yes? And that oik Nazi Germany still pops up now and again, even though he'd outstayed his welcome in 1945."

Sweden thought furiously. Against the background of an old Danish drinking song, he said

"Normally, if you get an invitation to dinner with Italy, you will grab it with both hands. It's usually a good night. But just now and again, when Brother Italy goes all Benito on you, you'll suddenly discover you're washing your hair that night."

"Sister Sweden told me that whenever Italy goes Roman Empire, the orgies he throws are pretty fantastic." Norway said, cheerfully. He watched Brother Sweden wince and grinned.

Brother England nodded, soberly.

"It's all jolly messy and un-necessary, really. And what with our having five thousand years worth of history, that's a lot of old sprites whose time has passed. But they still have a footprint in the world. So we opened up the Retirement Home here to make sure they're all accounted for and out of mischief. Well... they're f_amily._ You've _got_ to, really. Or you end up with Nazi Germany popping up and making mischief, or else Roman Empire marches up to the door and tries to make an offer I cannot refuse. Rather annoying. If Scotland's around , I get him to answer the door and sort it out."

Auntie returned.

"Well, that's the old chap put to bed with a mug of cocoa." she exclaimed, in the relieved tone of one who has done a job well. "Crisis over, I think."

"Auntie Britt, I have to say you do your job _superbly_." Brother England said. "I'm so glad you chose to come here and take a retirement job as Matron."

"Britt?" said Sweden, interested. "That's a Swedish name!"

She laughed, heartily.

"Oh, goodness gracious, no!" she said. "If there was any Swedish blood in me, you would _know. _No. My full name's Britannia. I started life as a tutelary spirit for the northern English tribe of the Brigantes, three thousand years ago. The Romans called me Britannia. I've been around in one form or another for a long time. Take the trident. Dates from when I was patron spirit to the Royal Navy. Nautical, you see. But when they took me off the currency in 1971, I decided it was time to retire. Been here ever since, helping out the current custodians."

"Time for a drink, I think." Brother England said, cheerfully. He looked around.

"Where are those other two..."

There was a gap in the room and an absence of Danish drinking songs.

Sweden did the thing where the forehead is slapped with the palm of the hand.

"I think Denmark and his long-lost...son...brother...uncle...cousin or whatever, have decided to go and pillage something. For old times' sake."

"Oh dear." said England. "I hope they don't cause _too_ much of a mess."

"Quite." said Sweden.

* * *

_Hoping I have not lost my audience by adding OC's, but I wanted to explore the philosophical nature of Nation Spirit-hood. What deeper implications are there? These are hinted at in the way Humon treats Germany, I think. _

_Will Denmark and Danelaw cause havoc before being forcibly restrained? _

_Has Norway worked it out about Norman yet? Will that brief dalliance with Sister France many years ago come back to haunt him in the form of Normandy?_

_All this and more – in the next thrilling episode._

* * *

**1 **Sorry, had to stick this one in. William the Conqueror was previously known as William the Bastard of Normandy. It is speculated that part of his drive to invade and conquer England in 1066 was to get a better name. It is also suspected that, human nature being what it is, people **_still_** tended to think of him as Bill The Bastard even after he became King of England.

Before that, England ended up pretty much split in two between the Anglo-Saxon Kingdom of Wessex in the south and west, based on Winchester, which faced down the Viking colony of the Danelaw, based on York and technically a part of Denmark. Alfred the Great broke the Korea-style deadlock and assimilated Danish England into a united whole. But the Scandinavian streak in the English never went away...

The national spirit of Great Britain - Britannia - was on the reverse face of the currency for nearly four hundred years. She was finally retired on decimalisation in 1971, but not without misgivings and pangs.


End file.
